


if not by fate, then by fire

by rizcriz



Series: the i love you collection [6]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Resurrection, post 4x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 18:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19818388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: There’s a webbing of magic there, glinting in the sunlight. He squints his eyes and tilts his head, moving to sit on his knees to get a closer look. It looks like wards; ghostly equations dancing in the air and letting the wind gently guide them back and forth. Like a flag on a gentle summer day. He watches it, almost like he’s caught in a trance, for a moment. Almost starts swaying with it.And then he gets up, and follows it.Lets it lead him. And when he approaches it, settling a hand in the air a breath away from making contact, he takes a deep breath, and looks up over it towering over him. Still swaying, like a dance to say hello and remind him he’s alive. His lips falls into a soft smile, and he presses forward. Expects a shockwave or for the magic to refuse his entrance. But his hand pushes through, and then his wrist with it’s magic rune, and then his arm and shoulder and before he knows it, he’s blinking up into a cloudless summer sky.--Or, another i love you





	if not by fate, then by fire

Quentin wakes up in a field. He’s definitely on Earth, of that much he can be certain — if not for the lack of Opium in the air, but for the plane flying overhead. He sits up, feels the crisp, autumn air — hinted at by the red and orange leaves settled on the ground around him — brush against his skin. He sits here for a moment, eyes falling shut as he just lets his body _feel._ Feel the itchy blades of grass against his calves and thighs, and the leaves tickling at the space on the underside of his knee.

Birds chirp in the distance, cool and calm and happy songs drifting through the air. Another plane passes overhead, blazingly loud. The wind buzzes along the hair on his arms, almost as soft as the last phantom touch of someone’s hand. He twists his arms around, examines the clean, scarless skin.

Pauses at a faint red mark over his left wrist. He brings the wrist up for further inspection — it almost looks like a rune. Or a spell. One far too intricate for him to recognize, but one that he doesn’t doubt is what brought him here. Considering his last memory is that of completely numbness standing in a doorway and looking back at Penny. _Someone fought for him._ He looks up, hands dropping to his sides, and settling in the itchy dead grass beneath him. His gaze follows length along the field, until he lands on the stretch of trees a few hundred yards away, where it shifts up to look them over.

There’s a webbing of magic there, glinting in the sunlight. He squints his eyes and tilts his head, moving to sit on his knees to get a closer look. It looks like wards; ghostly equations dancing in the air and letting the wind gently guide them back and forth. Like a flag on a gentle summer day. He watches it, almost like he’s caught in a trance, for a moment. Almost starts swaying with it.

And then he gets up, and follows it.

Lets it lead him. And when he approaches it, settling a hand in the air a breath away from making contact, he takes a deep breath, and looks up over it towering over him. Still swaying, like a dance to say hello and remind him he’s alive. His lips falls into a soft smile, and he presses forward. Expects a shockwave or for the magic to refuse his entrance. But his hand pushes through, and then his wrist with it’s magic rune, and then his arm and shoulder and before he knows it, he’s blinking up into a cloudless summer sky.

His jaw goes slack, and then he’s taking a step in, awestruck, as he walks the same path he took the first day he stumbled upon Brakebills. Up ahead, the large, imposing BRAKEBILLS sign glares him down. This time it lacks a particular debonair, but he can’t find it in himself to care, as he briskly walks across the field, twisting around to see that the line of trees have vanished, the remainder of Brakebills filling in their wake. He stops a hundred or so feet away from the stone entrance and looks to the right, chest heaving.

He swallows. And then, with whatever energy the rune on his wrist has given him, he digs his toes into the grass, and pushes forward, until he’s running in the direction of the physical kids cottage. The wind buzzes across his skin as he goes, hot and cold and everything he never thought he’d feel again, while the grass bends to his will beneath his feet, soft and dewey and only a little slippery. The blazes down on him, hot and overwhelming and the sweat pricks at his temples, hair sticking to it. He almost closes his eyes so he can get lost in the feeling of . . . _feeling._ But there’s something more important. Something pulling him onwards.

He finds it, just off in the distance, sun shining down on it like a spotlight beckoning him home. He slows to a walk, chest heaving, breaths heavy and quick. One hand settles on his stomach, feels it rise and fall with every breath, radiating heat and slippery with sweat. Another reminder he’s here, he’s alive.

_This_ is _real_ and _so is he._

He stands for a moment, stares at the cottage for a few moments to take it in. Then, one step after another, he closes the distance between himself and the cottage. He’s not sure how he knows they’re here, that they’re just behind that front door, but it fills him up to the brim of hope and joy and belief. Swells out over his skin and intermingles with the sweat and wind and goosebumps slowly spreading up his arms. And then he’s standing there, in front of the door, one hand poised over the doorknob, while the other reaches up to flatten the hair atop his head.

Carefully, and with trembling hands, he twists the doorknob and pushes it in. Quietly closes it behind himself, and stands there for a beat. Waiting for something. Anything.

When nothing comes, he turns and takes a step into the cottage. He heaves in a breath at the sight before him: Alice and Eliot sitting on the couch facing away from him. Eliot with his head in his hands, and his back shaking violently, while Alice runs a hand along his spine, her hair hiding her face as she dips down to say something to him.

“It was a long shot,” she says, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Remember? It didn’t work for me either.”

Quentin takes a step closer, swallows thickly, and opens his mouth to say something. But his throat is dry and there aren’t any words that come to mind. So he stands there, wrapping arm around himself, and bringing a hand up to grab onto the doorway. He leans into it, temple pressing into the wood so he can watch them.

Eliot’s reply comes jagged and broken. “No offense — but your relationship wasn’t the paradigm of true love you think it was.”

Alice only hesitates for a moment, before, “I _know_ that. I’m just trying to _help.”_

Eliot scoffs, the sound wet and full of something Quentin can’t quite make sense of. “Help me by making this spell work.” He sits up straight, and Alice’s hand falls to the couch as he inhales noisily and reaches up to wipe at his eyes. “Set it back up. I’m trying again.”

Face falling, Alice leans in, “You _can’t —“_

_“I love him,”_ Eliot mutters, full of feeling as he stands up and runs a hand through his hair, “I can’t _not.”_

Quentin’s heart slams against his ribcage as he pulls away from the doorframe, swallowing dry and falling back a step. His feet are sticky on the hardwood, and he stumbles, reaching out wildly to catch himself on the wood. He kneels, panic building up in his veins, and looks down at the rune on his wrist, the red brighter now than it had been in the clearing. His gaze slips over it and back to the living room where Eliot’s kneeling in front of the couch, his head of curls barely peaking out enough for Quentin to see him now. He reaches up, long, lithe fingers dancing in the sky, and twists his arms around as if to shake the sleeves of his shirt down, and there’s a flash of red on his wrist, nearly as bright as that on Quentin’s.

Wide eyed, Quentin settles on his knees, and watches, while Alice stands up and then kneels beside Eliot.

“Doing it again _won’t work,_ Eliot.”

Eliot’s response is a rushed and quiet whisper. “You don’t know that.”

Quentin’s chin trembles, fingers digging into the wood beneath them as he brings his left wrist to his chest, settling it over his heart. He hadn’t realized it before — but it’s red hot when it presses against his skin. Almost like fire. He closes his eyes and imagines it consuming him. Can’t help but think he’s already done as much. Not in this way, not so directly. The rune burns its intricate design into his skin. Digs deep into it, dances along his heart like a spell warming him up from the inside out.

“If it didn’t work the first time, it’s not going to work a second. Or a third, or fourth,” Alice says, “All you’re doing is depleting your energy. And you need it for —“

“If you’re going to say anything other than saving Quentin, save it.”

Eyes snapping open, heart lunging like it’s desperate for the heat of the rune to merge with it, Quentin pushes himself up. Opens his mouth to say — to say . . . something. _Anything._ But there aren’t any words appropriate.

Eliot loves him.

Eliot loves him _and fought for him._

The world’s going dark at the edges, but Eliot loves him, and fought for him, and is still currently fighting for him. He forces himself to his feet, suddenly overcome by the heat emitted by the rune. His fingers dig into the doorframe so angrily that his knuckles turn white, and all he can do, before he stumbles forward, over the single stairstep into the living room, is let out a broken, weak attempt at a sound. He’s not even sure it’s managed to slip past his dry tongue, but Eliot’s head is turning just before it disappears out of view, and Alice let’s out a shriek that dies as the world goes completely black and all thoughts but _Eliot loves him_ fade away into nothingness.

* * *

He wakes up on a cloud.

No, not a cloud. He shifts. A bed. Hand slides out to the side, slips along the fabric with ease. A bed covered in silk sheets. Eliot’s bed. Or Margo’s. His eyebrows furrow as he shifts again, the feel of something courser — cotton, maybe — slides along his legs. Clothes. He hadn’t had those the last time he woke up. There’s a breeze here, too, though it’s forced, and stinks of chemicals and old magic. He tries to pull his left hand, still drowning in heat, but something’s holding it firm, so he wiggles his fingers. Realizes it’s not the heat from the rune simmering along his skin but rather from a hand that completely engulfs his. The hand tightens its grip on his, and there’s a quick, surprised inhale.

_“Q.”_

Quentin eases out a breath, calm ease soothing out over his skin as another hand comes up and settles over the rune. There’d been a point he thought he’d never hear his name come from this voice with this inflection — not said with a mocking lilt or followed by a childlike glint in fiery eyes. Just a statement. Said a million times in a million different ways.

He blinks his eyes open, squinting against the sun glinting in through the curtains.

One of the hands disappear, and then the suns disappearing as the curtains slide shut. His eyes adjust as familiar head of curls appear over him, and then a face and — and familiar hazel eyes, misty and beautiful and greener then he remembers them being. Quentin tilts his head and reaches up with his free hand to cup the cheek he spent a lifetime running his thumb over. He feels the smile pulling at the corners of his lips before he even realizes he’s smiling.

Something wet and salty falls on his lips.

“Tell me it worked,” that same voice says, hoarse, as a hand, warm and soft, settles on his chin and wipes at the skin there. “And not that I’ve completely lost my god damned mind.” Quentin blinks up at him, opens his mouth, but the words get lost in the back of his throat. “Please _say_ something.”

Gazing up at him, he brings his hand down to settle on the side of Eliot’s throat, and then uses his thumb to gently tap on his adam’s apple. He furrows his brow, glaring down at his thumb, and taps again, opening his mouth as if to say he can’t actually say anything. Eliot’s breath hitches, and then the bed dips as he disappears out of sight, leaving Quentin’s hand suddenly ice cold now that Eliot’s not gripping it. A sad little whimper works it’s way up through Quentin’s chest and dies in his throat, a bubble of emotion bursting within him.

For a moment he actually thinks Eliot’s left him, but then the bed dips, and a fiery hot hand is sliding between him and the mattress and pushing and pulling him until he’s sitting up, staring at Eliot wide eyed. Eliot moves to sit beside him, keeping his left arm wrapped around Quentin’s lower back, while the right holds up a small glass of water. “Drink,” he says, soft. As Quentin brings his hands up to wrap around the glass, Eliot’s head dips, temple pressing to the top of Quentin’s head. When Quentin pulls the glass away, he feels Eliot shake his head as the hand comes back up to gently move it back toward him. “All of it, Q.”

It’s cold on his tongue. Glides down his throat with ease, and he’s almost certain he can feel it take the whole trek down to his stomach. Filling the empty space and cooling the unease. Eases the tacky dryness of his throat. As the last of it settles on his lips, he holds the glass out for Eliot again, and then it’s floating across the room. “Swallow.”

He does as he’s told.

“Now _say_ something.”

He twists his head around to look up at Eliot, leaning back just enough that he can actually see him without little floaters dancing along his vision with the strain of the position. He swallows.

“You love me.”

It comes out dry and hoarse and — _wrecked._

Eliot’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t pull away or look ready to deny. Instead the hand at his waist, with the rune burning into Quentin’s side, digs into his skin with blunt nails. “Oh,” he says after a beat, Adam’s apple bobbing. Chin trembling, he nods, and looks down at the space between them. “That . . . is not what I was expecting your first words from beyond the grave to be.”

“You love me,” Quentin repeats, only partly prodding for a confirmation.

Eliot’s eyes dart back up, flash between Quentin’s. And then he’s nodding again, squeezing Quentin. “Yeah,” he breathes, “Contrary to what I told you last time you asked, yeah. I do.”

Quentin’s heart slams against his chest as his lips curls in and tears prick at his eyes. Eliot reaches up and cups the side of his throat, before slowly, carefully, taking the trek backwards to take it’s place at the nape of his hair. He can’t help the way his eyes close, fluttering as he leans into the touch, letting the warmth settle in his spine and ease the tension traveling down the muscles.

“You _saved_ me.”

“No.” He squeezes the back of Quentin’s neck. “You _died.”_

“You brought me back?” He can’t help falling forward and burying his face in Eliot’s chest, nuzzling into the consuming warmth like it’s where he belongs. The heat radiates through his clothes, flushing Quentin’s cheeks until they’re blazing. But it’s more comfort than not, as Eliot’s thumb dips into Quentin’s hairline.

He feels him nod, his chin tapping the top of Quentin’s head as he does so. “We think so.”

“Because you _love_ me.” He weaves one hand around to clutch at Eliot’s hip.

A soft gust of air shuffles Quentin’s hair. “Yes.”

“And . . .” He pulls back, chin settling on Eliot’s collarbone as he looks up at him. “Because _I_ love _you.”_

Swallowing audibly, Eliot nods. “That was the assumption,” he murmurs, pulling the arm out from behind Quentin’s back to reach up and cup his cheek. “I . . . wasn’t sure.” He blinks, eyes darting down to glance at Quentin’s lips, and then flying back up to dance between his eyes. “Until I turned around and saw you lying there on the floor.”

“I told you I love you.”

“You also _left_ me.” Without really meaning to, Quentin pulls back. Eliot pulls him back in just as quickly, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, barely avoiding his eyelashes. “I can’t blame you, though. I’ve seen you at your worst . . . And if you were even a fraction of that without a support system . . .” He shakes his head and leans in, closing his eyes as he presses their foreheads together. “I’m not letting go of you this time, though.” The words come out as barely more than a breath ghosting over Quentin’s lips and chin. The air is minty and cool, a stark contrast to the heat blazing beneath Eliot’s forehead.

Quentin can’t help the quiet, “Promise?” that forces itself out and into the air between them.

Eliot nods again, forehead rolling against’s Quentin’s. “Would have promised you this a year ago if you’d been there when I woke up.”

It takes a moment for the words to register, but then — “It’s been a year?”

“Would it feel better if I lied and said no?”

Forcing out a breath, Quentin shakes his head. “It — I feel like I walked through the door — I don’t know. It feels like a century since I felt anything, as much as it feels like just yesterday I was standing there watching you all say goodbye to me.”

“You were there?”

“Penny showed me. Convinced me I needed to move on.”

Eliot’s quiet for a beat, and then the hand on Quentin’s cheek moves down so he can pull him in closer. “It doesn’t matter now,” he says, sliding his head over to place them temple to temple. “None of that matters anymore. Not the monsters or Penny or magic or — _any_ of it.”

“What does that mean?”

He leans into the heat radiating all through him, squeezing Eliot’s hip, and leveraging his grip there to pull him in closer, too. “It means,” Eliot starts, voice trembling as his grip on the back of Quentin’s neck tightens, sending sparks flying down his spine. “That you and I are done hurting each other. That — we have a future together. One I didn’t actually think was possible twelve hours ago.” He pauses, swallowing as Quentin’s hand travels up his back until it can slip over his shoulder and grip on there. “That is. If you want. _This._ Still.”

“Are you — are you giving me a choice?”

Eliot shrugs. “I know Alice wouldn’t mind —“

Quentin shakes his head and digs his fingers into Eliot’s shoulder. _“You.”_

Inhaling shakily, Eliot dips and twists his neck to bury his face in Quentin’s neck. “Me?” He asks, voice muffled and almost hesitant. Like he’s not sure he wants the answer.

But there’s a fire dancing through Quentin’s veins and all _he_ wants is _to answer._ “You,” he repeats. “I choose you. I chose you then, and I’m choosing you _now.”_ He pulls back and waits until Eliot meets his eyes. “Don’t blame this on just coming back from the — don’t blame a rush of emotions. Don’t — this — is a choice I made a long time ago.” He closes his eyes, swallowing down any fear that might try and creep it’s way up and through the fire blazing in him.

Something rumbles in Eliot’s chest, and then he’s pulling him back in. “I’m sorry I was afraid.” He says into Quentin’s hair.

Quentin nods, licking his lips. _“I’m_ sorry I stopped fighting.” He pauses. “That I left you. And that I never got to say goodbye. Or — or even hello.”

Eliot’s the one to pull away this time. He looks down at Quentin meaningfully, brushing his hair aside as he does so. “We can — we can say hello now,” he says, gentle, thumb sweeping under Quentin’s eye and wiping away the dampness that Quentin’s sure the sizzle beneath his skin could’ve taken care of. “And then whatever the fuck the world tries to throw at us — we can,” he swallows, “promise to never say goodbye. Unless we’re, like, _really_ fucking old.” An eyebrow perks and he leans in, “And I mean Gandalf or Dumbledore old, here, Q.”

A smile twitches at the corners of Quentin’s lips. “You could have said Betty White. Since she’s the realistic example here.”

Eliot scoffs. “You say that as if I’m settling for anything less than a hundred and fifty years this time.” 

“Yeah?”

Nodding, Eliot pulls back to look down at him, thumb brushing over Quentin’s cheekbone, a white hot flash of fire somehow beautiful and simmering and bright all at once. His voice is softer, almost languid when he speaks again.“We’re going to sign you up for therapy, and get you back on your meds, and we’re going to do this _right._ Make sure your support system isn’t dangerously oblivious. I’m going to do whatever I have to to make sure I don’t lose you again.”

“El —“

Eliot hushes him. “No arguing. Just say hello so we can start over.”

Quentin blinks. “Hello so we can start over.”

To his surprise, Eliot laughs — beautiful and _loud_ and a blazing fire builds up in Quentin’s stomach and spreads out and around until it simmers down in the places they’re touching. A mild, pulsating warmth that’s pleasant and too much and not enough altogether. “I missed you,” He says, when the laugh has settled to little more than a gentle smile curling the corners of his lips.

“I missed you, too,” Quentin replies, nodding. “But. Uh. If we’re doing this — I need —“

“What?”

He blinks innocently, pretends not to notice the mild panic working it’s way behind Eliot’s eyes. “I need you to kiss me.”

“Q,” Eliot says, endlessly tired, “you _just_ came back from the dead.”

“And?”

“And I’m not going to _take advantage—“_

Quentin scoffs, though a laugh threatens to break through, because of course Eliot’s going to be a gentleman about this. “Jesus, El,” He says, “I’m not asking you to _fuck_ me.” He squeezes his shoulder. “I just — barely remember. And . . .”

Eliot tilts his head. “And?”

“I just — feel like. There’s a fire there. That I need to put out.”

Eliot’s eyes go wide for a moment, before a soft, airy chuckle brushes over Quentin’s cheeks. “You feel it, too,” he murmurs. “It’s the rune,” he brings his left hand down and holds it up, wrist facing Quentin, “Fire magic.” He bites down on his lip and twists it around to look at it himself. “It’s the only kind of magic that can burn through heaven and hell to get to the other side.”

“How does it work?”

He makes a face. “Would you be shocked if I said true love is the only thing strong enough to power it?”

Quentin can’t help the smile that forces it’s way out, or the way he pushes up on his knees and brings his hands around to settle them on the front of both of Eliot’s shoulders. “So,” He says, shuffling until he’s comfortable, “What — what I’m hearing is, if we,” He swallows down some air and looks in Eliot’s eyes tentatively before barreling on, “ _kiss,_ we can basically say true loves kiss saved me, and you’re the prince I needed all along.”

“That’d make you the disney princess.”

Blinking, Quentin leans down enough to loop his arms around the back of Eliot’s neck. “If that — means you and I get a happy ending, I think I’m okay with that.” Heat swims down his arms and over his shoulders, flashing through his body and settling in the space Eliot’s hand is still holding him at the back of his neck. “We’re already starting again on a miracle. Why not make it a fairy tale?”

“We could also take it slow.”

“We’ve done that. Slow is for losers and people who don’t know there’s a clock on life.”

Eliot shakes his head. “There’s no clock on us.”

“Would you just kiss me?”

“You have to say hello first.”

“No,” Quentin huffs, “You have to kiss me first.”

Eliot laughs and leans back, “If I kiss you first then it’s part of the life we’re leaving behind. But if you say hello first—“

“Oh my god, _Hi,_ you bastard. Hello, I’m Quentin Coldwater. My zodiac sign is cancer, I’m in love with my best friend, and I make a lot of stupid—“ The words go muffled, and then die, as soft heat encases his lips and the world disappears beneath the blazing red glow that follows. He pulls himself in closer, even as Eliot’s already tugging him in, burying himself in the fire as it all directs itself to his lips, impassioned and desperate like it’s trying to consume him and let him go all at once.

* * *

He wakes up content. An easy warmth at his back, gentle smile already finding its way to his lips. The same, chemically induced breeze smoothing over his skin. A heartbeat echoes through his back, steady and familiar. It he could feel his own, he’d be almost certain that they’re in sync. If not by fire, then by fate.

He rolls over, and curls up. He rests his head against Eliot's chest, and closes his eyes.


End file.
